


Lessons in Falling

by Argyle



Category: Good Omens
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-02-03
Updated: 2006-02-03
Packaged: 2019-02-11 20:07:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12942810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Argyle/pseuds/Argyle
Summary: You never forget how. (London, 1866/1899)





	Lessons in Falling

It began like this: a bet placed on a chestnut filly on the first day of June.

It was a Saturday.

Aziraphale had five guineas in his pocket, and his hand shook as he drew them out and placed them in the upturned palm of a barrel-chested bookmaker whose striped trousers were the color of candied apples and bottle-glass. Very good, very good, the man may have roared against the crowds; his leer was shadowed by the oiled brim of his tall hat, and his eyes glistened in the mid-afternoon sunlight. Five-to-one, ten-to-one: the archbishop’s pride and the maiden of the hour was none other than Sparrow’s Flight, a horse with a docked mane which sprang from her neck in peals of pitch.

“Are you certain such a fine gentleman as yourself would not rather bet on her?”

“No, thank you.” Aziraphale had to raise his voice almost to the brink of a shout. He wanted to bet on the rank outsider.

The bookmaker grinned down at him. “As you wish: three guineas on the outside chance.” Hook, line, and sinker. He scrawled a symbol across the board which stood behind him, all the while rubbing his chalky fingertips against his thick thighs.

Aziraphale folded his own fingers around his ticket. His breath caught in his throat. “Thank you,” he said again, though the bookmaker had already turned away.

The filly’s name was East of Eden; the guineas had been for a new volume of Tennyson, but when Aziraphale heard the clamor of the track, the fierce heartbeat hum of hooves on raw earth, he had found himself swept before the wide, muddy ring as though by the will of the sea itself. An urchin tried to pick his pocket. Mud crept around the toes of his boots, and he avoided the reach of murky puddles with wide steps and copious apologies to those whom he shuffled past.

This was not exactly what he expected of the Sport of Kings [1].

In the past decades he had become so accustomed to quiet weekends that each indubitably predicted the activities of the next, and the days in-between were strung together like the great processions of smoke-stained moths which crept across the brick façade of his shop.

One hour it would rain, and the next the clouds would part.

Aziraphale had patience enough to see centuries through, though any sensible being would understand the need for a bit of variety in one’s existence. This outward-mindedness wasn’t the product of loneliness, or not only, but rather that of a certain dull unease which began to settle in the pit of his stomach when Crowley returned to the billowed warmth of his duvet some forty years before. Aziraphale didn’t have the heart to be jealous of Crowley’s preferred company, and even if he did, the dreams in question could hardly be held to answer for themselves.

And so it went.

In 1833 Aziraphale began to take morning constitutionals. By 1841, they straddled his afternoons, and in 1866, he did not return home until well after dark.

It was the promise of fresh air which first drew the angel out, followed by the acknowledgment that he might very well get a bit of thwarting done at the same time. This proved to be a double-edged sword, and not of the flaming variety: even the briefest lungful of fresh air was a rather difficult commodity to come by in greater London, but if the good Messrs Dickens and Rossetti were to be trusted as sincere judges of the national character, and one remembered not to breathe too often, Aziraphale would no doubt be in his element [2].

And so he was.

The track was swarming with miscreants and vagabonds, dukes and deuces, viscounts and tramps and proper rapscallions. There might be a wile for every other second and a treachery for every third.

He told himself this: the betting ticket is a necessary accessory to the cause of virtue.

Besides which, he knew Scheherazade could never win, though the ill-smelling soothsayer behind the balustrade assured him that she would.

Aziraphale plunged his hands deep in his pockets.

Rooks called out from atop high brass pikes. Dogs barked from underfoot. A haggard company of young men laced the iron-capped railing of the paddock, their boots nestling against the lower slats, and ladies in bustle bee-lined for the grandstand with their consorts held tight to the crooks of their arms and purses their held tighter. Standards blew in the breeze; silk-clad knaves blew plumes of fire before circles of onlookers.

A boy in a threadbare frock was selling lavender from a wicker basket, and Aziraphale placed a ha’penny curl of it in his buttonhole. The scent tickled his nose; he sneezed repeatedly, but hoped it would lessen the heady, hazy stench of horse droppings and pipe tobacco that surrounded him. It didn’t.

“Twenty-to-one!” cried another bookmaker from the vantage of his platform amidst the thrall. “Sparrow’s Flight the sure win, a backside like the dome of heaven!”

Aziraphale’s pulse raced.

Gambling, he knew, was a corruption.

It was not like buying books one year and selling them for a profit the next; that sort of thing happened but rarely. He was ever certain to only procure those books which sparked his interest, and he long ago found that his shop’s well-lined walls were quite aesthetically pleasing to the eye. Of course there was no telling when he might need to consult one of them, so it was for the best that he should choose to keep them all. To be sure, the art of sales was an elevated craft which took years of practice and beguiled understanding.

On the other hand, gambling was one of the most greedily vile pursuits of man. To place one’s money on the mere idea of a thing seemed a folly: these eager patrons of the track were wont believe anything at all. They strove to entertain and be entertained, and their pockets only filled with putrid ether and grey-crested down as they prayed to the fat-fisted deities of luck. Their coins were an offering, a lyre’s song of silver to be remembered until the crack of the pistol and the din of the race. Loss only led to greater risk, greater obsession and regret.

Aziraphale knew that gambling was an offence.

He also supposed there must be a system to it.

A young man in a hound’s-tooth jacket settled before the fence beside him, and in the briefest of glimpses from the corner of his eye, Aziraphale thought that he recognized him. It was the manner, the languorous posture, the quieted look of interest in his eyes as he scanned the ring. But of course it could not be Crowley: the eyes were warm and brown, and Crowley had gone.

“Lovely day, don’t you think?” Aziraphale asked, idly.

The young man looked up. “I beg your pardon?”

“I said it’s a lovely day.”

“Oh.” He seemed surprised by this suggestion. “Well. I suppose so.”

“I’ve not been here before,” Aziraphale continued. The breeze rustled the hair about his temples, and he raised a hand to push it behind his ears. “To the track, I mean.”

“You haven’t?”

“No. I daresay it’s all very exciting.”

They stood in silence for a moment. The young man pulled a cigarette from a silver case; his hands shook as he lit it, and it was only by way of a visible afterthought that he offered one to Aziraphale.

“Thank you,” Aziraphale said. Behind him, a bookmaker proclaimed the flanks of Elysium to be the strongest in the land and the backside of Cassiopeia to be the most bountiful. His knuckles whitened as he grasped the railing. He watched a couple of jockeys stride towards the paddock, and their faces became momentarily darkened by the pluming exhalation of his smoke.

The young man watched, too, and whispered under his breath: one, two, one, two, and through and through. His words were an incantation, and his lips were taut with vice.

At length, Aziraphale continued, “This location has a rather interesting history associated with it, you know.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. It was still a market not fifty years ago.”

“Oh.”

“And before that, it was a hospital for plague victims,” Aziraphale said softly. “Fire took down the building not long after, but look--,” here he pointed to the far side of the ring, “--I do believe those stones may be part of the original foundation. Looks like granite, eh?”

A pause, and then: “I suppose so.”

“Yes, there’s nothing like a strong foundation to stand the test of time, I always say.”

“What about the future?”

“I’m not sure what you mean,” said Aziraphale.

“There’s always room for another chance, don’t you think?”

“Yes, there’s that.”

“It’s all I need.”

“Ah,” Aziraphale replied. “Well, even the Romans knew a thing or two about--”

“Did Martineau send you?” the young man asked suddenly. It was the first time he met Aziraphale’s eye, and the angel realized that he was younger than he had at first supposed. Eighteen, perhaps, or twenty; drink had not yet marked his features with the wary lines of age.

“Martineau?” Aziraphale repeated.

“Yes, yes.” He drew feverishly on his cigarette, scattering ash, and then tossed it to the ground with a flick of his wrist. “Martineau. Did he send you?”

“I’m sorry, my dear boy,” Aziraphale said, meaning it. “I am afraid I don’t know any Martineaus.”

“You’re not here to _collect_ , then?”

Aziraphale shook his head. He reached into his pocket to retrieve the betting ticket.

“Oh,” the young man said again, quite simply. He narrowed his eyes as he read it, and his lips curled into a slow smile. “East of Eden is the outside chance.”

“Do you think I ought to have chosen a different one?”

“No. A man must act upon his first impulse.”

Aziraphale did not think this sound advice, but he nodded. He sensed that the young man was appraising him, sizing him up; his red-rimmed eyes flicked to and fro, and there was a glint of laughter beneath his lashes.

“Do you come here often?” Aziraphale asked, instantly regretting it.

“Not often,” was the heedless answer, and then: “Well. Once a week.”

“And do _you_ think there’s an, er, _trick_ to it?”

The young man glanced at him. “A trick?” It was odd the way he responded to everything as though the thought had never occurred to him before. “Why, in a sense, yes.” He narrowed his eyes again, and then continued, “You’re not a churchman, are you?”

“Pardon?”

“Are you a churchman?”

Aziraphale hesitated. “Not exactly,” he said, after a moment.

“My _father_ was a churchman. He was called Reverend Lovelace, but he loved his mares moreso.” He shrugged. His jacket was open at the collar, and the bright silk of his tie cast his throat in a ruddy shadow. With a lingering smile, he pushed the brim of his cap back from his brow; its angle made him appear suddenly rakish and willful as would a boy lord who is drunk with the possibility of his first foxhunt. “Rather a hard cheese on my mother, I should say. But me? Like father, like son, only I was never called.”

Aziraphale patted Lovelace on the shoulder and assured him that he would, in time.

East of Eden won the race.

The angel’s odds were fifty-to-one.

After he folded the grimy wad of notes into his waistcoat pocket, Aziraphale fell into the crowd as it broke past the gates and scattered over the darkening streets. The nearby pubs would soon be bristling with activity as disappointed flutterers and gentlemen of leisure attempted to recoup their losses with ivory dice and clear their heads with cards. Here and there, the ale flowed aplenty; Aziraphale did not join them. The previous hours had left him feeling quite satiated, but then again, he could not disguise the slight spring in his step, and there was Lovelace in his hound’s-tooth jacket not twenty feet ahead of him. He was also perched several feet above even the tallest in the crowd, and it was not until Aziraphale caught sight of the high-rimmed wheel of his velocipede that he thought it odd.

“I say!” Aziraphale called, raising a hand.

The young man did not turn. Rather, with a careful grip on his handlebars, he maneuvered himself away from the throng, twisting and turning at an impressive clip until he was free. The velocipede remained steadfast and true in spite of the precarious positioning of Lovelace’s weight and the slick-backed cobbles of the street.

Aziraphale stared after him for some minutes before making his way home.

The next day was Sunday; the shops were not open.

On Monday, Aziraphale purchased the new volume of Tennyson. He was also fitted for a hound’s-tooth jacket in Saville Row, which seemed very nearly swellheaded, and a velocipede in Oxford Street, which seemed quite simply inevitable. The jacket was ready by Tuesday week, and the tailor assured him the fabric suited his complexion a treat; the velocipede was ready by three o’clock on the following Friday, and it looked very fetching in the distinguished blend of red paint he had requested. Both were just in time to pepper his weekend constitutional with the variety it so sorely needed.

He did not, however, anticipate that teaching himself to ride his new velocipede would prove to be such a precarious enterprise.

Getting the contraption oiled and aligned was simple enough; hauling it to St. James’ Park without breaking a sweat was slightly harder. Hoisting himself onto it took a bit of sustained concentration, to say nothing of a loose tongue. Setting it forward required that the ground be slanted, but only just so. Setting it forward with his feet on the pedals and his hands on the handlebars and his eyes on the path ahead took the sort of faith that could move fjords.

This was the easy part.

The hard part was shaking off the impulse to cast the velocipede into the pond after it bucked him off not once, nor twice, but three times within five minutes.

He let it go with a murmured admonishment. And then: “All right?”

The velocipede creaked in consent.

“Good,” said Aziraphale. He tugged on his collar and pulled himself back up, straightened the high wheel and buffered the low wheel, pushed at the pedals and tightened his grip.

 _Clip-clop-clunk, clip-clop-clunk_ , went the velocipede.

Aziraphale’s teeth chattered; his bones rattled; his head bobbed. His jacket swished about him. His hair blew back from his brow. If he had unfurled his wings, they would have molted.

 _Clip-clop-clunk_ , the velocipede continued, _clip-clop-clunk, clip-clop-clop-clank-splash_.

That was the sound of the velocipede as it plummeted into the pond.

Aziraphale only splashed.

The ducks were none too pleased about being disturbed from their post-lunch siesta, though any vocalization of their ill-will was soon silenced as they caught sight of the packages of biscuits which had floated out from Aziraphale’s pocket.

Even ducks know when to grin and bear a bad situation, and the biscuits were fresh.

Aziraphale hauled the velocipede from the water and glared down at his sopping suit.

“Any more of that,” he hissed, “and you’ll be spending the next two hundred years as a lightning rod. Do I make myself quite clear?”

The velocipede considered this.

Aziraphale cleared his throat. West of Finchley, a great bank of slate-colored clouds began to amass. Thunder rumbled in the distance. A bolt of lightning streaked the sky.

“Well?”

Somewhere, deep beneath its chrome and iron frame, between the gears and bolts and enameled embellishments, the velocipede knew it had met its match.

“Splendid,” the angel chirped. Naturally, the storm was not his doing, but he felt justified in playing up its effect. It was rather a pity that he would have to wait until later to make certain of the velocipede’s intent [3], but he felt confident that there would be little need for further discussion on the matter.

His confidence was not unfounded. The following day, anyone who saw him might have said that he had been riding all his life, though his bones still rattled as he made his way down the street.

“Tally ho!” said Aziraphale.

 _Whoosh_ , went the velocipede.

By the time Crowley came round again, there had been significant advancements in the world of practical velocipedemanship [4]. It was 1899, and the whole world seemed changed, or nearly so.

Crowley was bleary-eyed and bedraggled when he tumbled through the door of Aziraphale’s shop on a Thursday morning in May. He was also out of breath.

“What in Go-- Sa-- _someone’s_ name is going on out there?” he demanded, dashing a hand across his brow and collapsing onto the settee.

“Crowley, my dear,” Aziraphale managed. Tea sloshed over the rim of his cup with the sudden, nervous energy of his hand. It was not the mere sight of Crowley that surprised him, for Crowley was dressed quite fetchingly and in what Aziraphale supposed to be the newest leanings of the latest trends, but rather the anticlimactic nature of the scene. While he wouldn’t go so far as to call it disappointing, he had always imagined it would involve rather more, well, _oomph_.

“Since when, exactly, have the streets been swarming with those two-wheeled monstrosities?” Crowley asked. “Men, galloping along like horses! It’s enough to make a person sick.”

“Velocipedes.”

“What?”

“Bicycles,” Aziraphale amended, and settled onto the seat across from Crowley. “They’ve been all the rage for, oh, ten years at the very least. I thought _everyone_ knew.”

“What?” Crowley said again.

“They’re not like horses, you see. They don’t even soil the streets.”

“Practical transportation for the masses? Did you have anything to do with this, angel?”

“No, no,” Aziraphale assured him. He folded his hands atop his lap. “Certainly not.”

“Nothing?”

“Nothing.”

Crowley sighed heavily. “Fine,” he said. And then, “Have you got any wine? I could use a glass like you wouldn’t believe.”

“It’s ten o’clock in the morning, my dear...” Seeing Crowley’s eyes narrow, Aziraphale trailed off and let out a sudden cough. “But, um, of course we could have wine. And brie, if you’d like.”

Crowley blinked. “Brie?”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale said. “Wouldn’t you know, everything French is back in favor.”

“Ngk.”

“Lovely. I’ll just get the wine, then.”

And he did.

“They’re marvelously reliable, bicycles,” Aziraphale said somewhere between his second and fourth glass. “Just need a bit of tuning and they’re off.”

“A mustached scarecrow in a black suit [5] almost ran one over my foot,” Crowley retorted sourly. “Bloody fool didn’t know what he had coming.”

“My word, but I hope you didn’t do anything too hasty.”

Crowley shrugged.

“Well?”

“No, I didn’t do anything _too hasty_ ,” Crowley mumbled into his wine. “I’ll have you know I thought it out quite clearly from beginning to end, but those metal frames are rather heavier than they look.”

“Oh,” said Aziraphale. “You didn’t.”

Crowley shrugged again. “He ought to have watched where he was going.”

“And you brought it _here_?”

“Where was I supposed to take it? Parliament? Perhaps then they’d get it into their heads to ban the damned things, hmm?”

Aziraphale laughed shortly. “You needn’t put it _that_ way, my dear.”

“Good,” said Crowley, glancing warily around the shop. “Great.”

“Yes, great,” Aziraphale agreed. And then, after a bit of careful consideration: “I could teach you, you know. To ride.”

“Me? Ride one of those... those...”

“Bicycles.”

“You must be joking.”

Aziraphale smiled.

Crowley did not return the gesture. “Don’t look at me like that,” he said.

“Oh, but there’s nothing to it. It’s just like breathing or walking or-- or-- _flying_.”

And it was, rather, though Aziraphale failed to mention the rather pointed issue of balance. He reached across and gave Crowley an encouraging pat on the arm. “We could do it in the country,” he said brightly, “where there’s no one about. I’m sure you wouldn’t mind a change of scenery. It’s been a while since you’ve been out of London, hasn’t it?”

“Well, yes,” Crowley said slowly.

“And you always _did_ take interest in technology.”

“Mhmm.”

“See? This is _modern_ technology, my dear,” Aziraphale said, watching Crowley’s features closely. One must be tactful about this sort of thing, he reasoned. “I imagine it’s even better than other sorts of technology.”

Crowley hesitated. He opened his mouth, then closed it again.

Aziraphale was still smiling.

“If I agree to this, don’t think it’s because I care buggerall about clean streets.”

“No,” Aziraphale said.

“Or about a change of scenery.”

“Certainly not.”

\-----------------

The next day, when they had at last made their way between hills and through dales, over rocks and under the canopy of oak and elm, Aziraphale insisted that they begin straight away, and yes, their picnic lunch would still be waiting for them when they had finished. This was spoken openly and earnestly, as much for the benefit of himself as for Crowley: his stomach had begun to rumble shortly after they disembarked from their train at the Oxford station.

“Now,” Aziraphale said, his silk kerchief whipping about his shoulders in the breeze, “the trick is to keep oneself moving along.” He motioned towards Crowley’s bicycle, which was leaning against the trunk of a great tree, and then towards his own, which lay on the grass beside him. He felt inwardly thrilled at having already had some thirty years of experience at riding. In that time, his hound’s-tooth jacket had become rather like a careworn friend, quiet and knowing and familiar; he knew it wasn’t the age that mattered, but the mileage.

Crowley watched Aziraphale with narrowed eyes as the angel righted and mounted his bicycle. “Get on with it,” he said.

“Right,” Aziraphale replied. He positioned his feet and began to peddle out from beneath the long shadow of the tree.

It was a very fine day, indeed: the air was hung with the scent of all that is green and alive, and the sun fell heatedly across his face. Aziraphale pushed left, right, and left again, and the graveled path crackled merrily from beneath the narrow pressure of the wheels.

A song rose up from his lips.

The song went like this: I’ve got a bike. You can ride it if you like. It’s got a basket, a bell that rings, and things to make it look good.

If Crowley had been listening at all closely, he would have shuddered to hear it.

After a few minutes of bright exertion, Aziraphale circled back towards Crowley. “See?” he asked, easing himself into a standing position. “Nothing to it.”

Crowley had joined his bicycle in its slant against the tree trunk, his feet crossed at the ankle, his arms folded across his chest; his gaze fell not on Aziraphale, but rather on some unseen specter in the middle distance. His immaculate black suit appeared suddenly somber. His throat, visible between the sharp lines of his collar, was pale. He looked bored. “You can say that again,” he said, after a moment, and mounted his own bicycle.

Aziraphale held his breath.

He counted: one, two, three, four...

But the crash never came.

Crowley careened out from beneath the tree, tracing the trail through the grass that Aziraphale had only recently forged, and made his way down the lane. He pedaled left and right, his hands resting round the handlebars in an easy grip, his posture straight as he twisted and turned for several minutes before making his way back to Aziraphale.

“Not bad,” Aziraphale said softly as Crowley swung his leg around the bicycle’s side and stepped down.

“Not bad?” Crowley replied. His cheeks were ruddy; his mouth curled into a smile. “Not bad?”

“Yes, certainly.” Aziraphale eased himself down onto the grass and began rooting through the luncheon basket.

“I think I could get used to this.”

Aziraphale looked up. “Really?”

“Why not?” Crowley shrugged. “Nothing wrong with it, is there?”

“No, nothing at all,” Aziraphale said, feeling his spirits rise. He handed Crowley a linen napkin, and then asked, “What would you like?”

“Got any chicken?”

Aziraphale blinked. “Chicken? Of course, my dear,” he said. There was more than chicken. There were gherkins and sliced potatoes, deviled eggs and strawberries, cheese and cream cakes. There was also wine, and by the time they were through with it all, their cheeks were flushed with more than just the drooping, sanguine sun.

“What do you say we come back tomorrow?” Aziraphale asked. “Won’t be a bother.”

Crowley stared into his glass for a moment. “Might have to, you know, report in,” he said. “Haven’t done that in a while, now I think of it.”

“Mm.” Aziraphale began to consider the angle of Crowley’s chin, the slant of his mouth. If one could only... Well. There was always tomorrow, or the day after that. He sighed quietly.

“So, this Bismarck chap,” Crowley was saying, “did he really think he could get away with all of that?”

“He _did_ get away with it. But the tins of commemorative gingerbread? Dry as parchment.”

“Huh.”

“Quite,” Aziraphale agreed. “He even... Er. Do you hear something?”

Crowley tilted his head. “I don’t think so.”

“Oh. Well, anyway, at least there wasn’t a ban on... There it is again. No mistaking it.”

“Sounded like a rifle.”

“No,” Aziraphale said. He scanned the horizon, up and down until his eyes settled on the bulky silhouette which bobbed and surged down the road. It roared and sputtered, buzzed and beeped and whirred; it was coming their way, not artfully or very quickly, but coming nonetheless.

Aziraphale narrowed his eyes, but there was no mistaking the shape of the small, grinning man in goggles and tweed who manned the wheel. “You there!” he called out.

“Hullo!” replied the little man. He did not look away from the road. “Hullo, sir!”

“I say, but you’ve no right to create such a disruption.” Aziraphale strained to be heard over the rocketing racket. “What is the meaning of this?”

“This?” came the reply. “This, you ask? This is the future, my boy, the automobile!”

“Automobile,” Aziraphale scoffed, waving the billowing dust away from his eyes. He stared after the retreating form before turning back to Crowley. “Abomination, more like. He looked quite ill, didn’t he? Rather green, I should think.”

Crowley peered over the frame of his sunglasses, his eyes wide and wondering.

“My dear?”

“Hmm?”

“I suppose we ought to be getting back,” Aziraphale said, feeling his frustration fade. He glanced down to the bicycles, discarded between the knotted roots of the tree, and then back up again. “It’s nearly nightfall.”

“Hmm,” Crowley agreed, and pushed a hand through his hair. He smiled. “What about another glass?”

“Well, I suppose. If you’d like.”

“I’ll pour.”

“All right.”

When Crowley raised the toast, it was to the future.

\------------------

[1] Excepting, of course, the mighty ruler Genghis Khan, who is quoted as saying, “There’s nothing like a good mud bath to start the day, if you catch my drift.” This is perhaps why he went through sixteen personal assistants in the span of two years. The seventeenth personal assistant, Applicant 846 (Mongo Qutlugh Qacha, alias Scourge of Pamir, alias Seymour Preston Barnaby Jones Jr. of Darlington, Northumberland), kept the position for the remainder of his days, and is quoted as saying, “Why, I thought he said ‘blood bath,’ but if everyone went about with a chip on his shoulder regarding his soap-deprived neighbor, where would we be? Not very far, I can tell you without pause.” And here he paused. “Well. Certainly not all the way to Samarquad, and that’s saying something.”

[2] Justium (Ps) 4004.00951, a metal found in such diverse locations as Newcastle-upon-Tyne, Elephant Butte, New Delhi, and the Jovian moons Io and Elara, and not to be confused with Frankium (Fu) and Valium (Cb). Although only certain early breakaway sects of the scientific community have as of yet acknowledged its existence, Justium has been used to happy effect in the crafting of sacred artifacts and the minting of currency, as well as a cheap (if jaw-breaking) alternative to silver tooth fillings.

[3] As any credible meteorologist will tell you, it’s a bad idea to remain beside a sizable body of water during an electrical storm.

[4] These advancements included but were not limited to: lighter frames, evenly-sized wheels, firmer traction on bumpy roads, and the ability to turn.

[5] One Seymour Preston Barnaby Jones IX, formerly of Darlington, Northumberland.


End file.
